


pandora

by insincerely



Category: Black Panther (2018)
Genre: Cousin Incest, M/M, i kept my promise, i think, this one has a plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-12
Updated: 2018-03-12
Packaged: 2019-03-30 06:41:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,393
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13945443
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/insincerely/pseuds/insincerely
Summary: In retrospect, T'Challa should've expected this.





	pandora

In retrospect, T'Challa should've expected this.

He'd been too lenient, giving in to Erik's indulgences without so much as a tight frown and pursed lips. It had started with small, common requests ("Apples. The juiciest, freshest apples y'all got.") to increasingly peculiar ones ("What I gotta do for y'all to hook me up with some Naruto? I miss watchin' that shit."), which then eventually lead to _now_ –

"What's wrong, cuz? Cat got your tongue?" Erik's leaning back on his seat, arms crossed over his chest with that infuriating smirk on his lips.

T'Challa feels a tic under his eye, the movement miniscule but definitely not lost on Erik, who's now grinning toothily at him.

"Hey, if y'all don't got porn, then I could do with one of 'em hussies you got."

Despite knowing that Erik's merely trying to get a reaction out of him, T'Challa bristles all the same, back straightening as he hisses, "Wakanda does not– I do not have–" then he sighs, rubbing the bridge of his nose as he tries for a more neutral approach. "We do not find those... necessary."

Erik raises an eyebrow. "You for real?"

T'Challa sighs, nodding as he does so. "Listen–" he starts in his most amicable, diplomatic voice, the kind he uses to placate the royal council whenever the tension is high and the stakes are even higher. Just like when he'd informed them of his intentions to keep Erik in the palace.

"Nah, cuz, you listen to me," Erik leans in, and for a split second T'Challa stiffens instinctively, the hand on his knee closing into a fist. But then he remembers Erik is no longer the same man that he had been back then, so full of hatred and rage that he'd been blinded by it.

Now, in this room with him is not Erik Stevens, but N'Jadaka, son of Prince N'Jobu– his cousin, and a tentative ally to his cause. He'd been sharing his insights about T'Challa's project back in Oakland, of setting up a Wakandan outreach center to help their brothers and sisters.

T'Challa would never forget the way Erik had looked at him when he'd first brought up his plan, along with what that entailed for Erik himself. The way Erik's eyes had softened, shoulders slackening until all that had been left was a broken man with a shot at redemption.

"This is pretty TMI but," T'Challa's dragged back to the present with Erik's stage whisper, "my imagination's been runnin' a little dry these days, and between you and me, that tree over there," he juts his chin somewhere behind T'Challa, who cranes his neck to follow the motion. "is lookin' pretty sexy to me right now. I mean, look at how thick–"

"Alright, that's enough." T'Challa turns back to see amusement twinkling in Erik's eyes, and despite the frustration and secondhand embarrassment and everything else Erik seems to ignite in him, the sight of it brings a strange satisfaction all the same.

"So we finally seeing eye to eye, cuz?" Erik prods, grinning so hard that his dimple digs into his cheek. T'Challa's eyes stray to it for a moment before flicking back up.

"I will... see what can be done." he relents, helpless to Erik's expectant, almost hopeful gaze.

"That's good enough for me." Erik replies, looking so pleased that T'Challa can't really fault himself for giving in so easily. Then, almost a second later, Erik quips, "Just make sure y'all put in some big titties–"

"Yes, fine!" At this point T'Challa's beyond exasperated, and frankly, he'd been stalling for too long already. 

Pushing his chair back, T'Challa stands up to full height, running a hand down his robe to smooth out the nonexistent creases before twisting a kimoyo bead. He reads through the transcript of his conversation with Erik, making sure that all his suggestions had been noted.

"Thank you for today, N'Jadaka," he says as he switches off the hologram. T'Challa doesn't miss the way Erik's jaw clenches for a fraction of a second. "I will be taking my leave now."

"Always a pleasure, my king." T'Challa knows that the soft touch to Erik's voice is out of pure mockery and nothing else, but he can't help the flutter in his chest, right by the vicinity of his heart.

Erik's eyes never leave him even as he turns away, walking towards the door with slow, measured steps.

*

T'Challa's halfway into Shuri's lab when she meets him by the hallway, the usual mischievous glint in her eye replaced by a rather grim expression.

T'Challa isn't a fool; he knows exactly what's causing that worried crease in her brow. Doesn't mean he can't play the part, though.

"What's wrong, Shuri?" he asks, batting his eyelashes for effect.

Unfortunately for him, Shuri is wise beyond her years, and knows her brother well enough to spot the tell when he's bluffing.

"I'm sure if you blink any more you'll start seeing doubles, brother." Then before T'Challa's even opened his mouth to respond, she continues, "That thing you asked me to do. For N'Jadaka. It's done."

She leads him to the center of her workspace, gesturing towards two tablets laying on the table.

"It's got limitless memory, which means it has all the videos." her upper lip curls in blatant disgust as she picks one up and presses it into T'Challa's chest. "And I mean _all_ of them."

T'Challa nods mutely, switching the tablet on. The screen lights up to a home screen filled with various folders, categorizing the videos with rather vulgar labels that has him raising both eyebrows at Shuri.

"What?" she snaps, hands going up defensively. "I programmed it to group each video by the common tags from the Internet. It's neater that way."

"I see," T'Challa replies, reads _Ass Eating_ from one of the folders and promptly shuts off the screen. His eyes stray back to the other tablet. "What is the other one for? Does he really need two of the same thing?"

"No, brother."

Plucking the tablet out of his hand, she gestures for one of the Dora Milaje stationed by the exit. Once the guard steps forward, Shuri murmurs something about dropping the tablet off to the "brute's room", winking conspiratorially at the Dora before turning back to T'Challa.

"That was for him. This," she then holds out the second tablet towards T'Challa. "is for you."

"What?" he sputters, feels himself redden at the mere thought of having his own library of–

 _Ass eating_ , his mind whispers helpfully. T'Challa flinches.

The stony expression on Shuri's face can only last for so long, and ultimately it's the scandalized expression that T'Challa has on that does it in. She breaks into a fit of giggles, clutching her sides as T'Challa looks at her with wide, round eyes.

"Oh, you should see your face!" Shuri's practically guffawing, wiping a tear by her eye. Once she's sufficiently calmed down, she claps T'Challa on the shoulder, shaking her head. "No need for that antelope caught in headlights look, brother. This one is slightly different."

She presses the home button to show him that yes, it isn't exactly identical with Erik's. For one, there are no folders littering the screen. "I made the precaution of linking this tablet with N'Jadaka's, so you can monitor his activity."

T'Challa wishes he could say the words _Why? There is no need for that_ , but one look from Shuri is already enough for him to know that there's no going around this.

Because despite Erik finally accepting his role as an advisor for T'Challa's outreach program, proving himself time and time again with his practicality and passion, he still has a long way to go until he gains his people's trust, let alone the rest of the royal family.

The thought tastes like a bitter pill on T'Challa's tongue, one that he swallows and endures as he replies, "I see."

"I know he is trying, brother," Shuri says, as if sensing the displaced hurt T'Challa feels. She places a hand over his, her touch warm and reassuring. "but we must not forget that he's also a smart man. Bast knows what he can do with advanced Wakandan tech in his hands."

T'Challa nods, humbled by how much foresight Shuri had put into Erik's request. Then a thought suddenly strikes him, makes him smile wryly at her. "Wait a minute. Why are you putting this task on your brother, eh? Does running a country not sound hectic enough for you?"

Shuri blanches at that. "No way will I, or any of my assistants, be part of N'Jadaka's... _activities_. And since you two have already formed a bond, I think it's rather self-respecting for our dear cousin that it's you who does it."

"Huh," T'Challa replies intelligently, his brain somehow stuck on the fact he and Erik have apparently bonded.

 _Have we, though?_ he finds himself asking internally, _has our relationship truly improved?_

"If you think any more I'm pretty sure your head's going to explode, brother." Shuri teases, promptly breaking the increasingly dangerous thoughts bombarding T'Challa's mind.

"Anyways," she continues, eyes gleaming with her usual cheekiness. "I can't wait for N'Jadaka to get rickrolled."

The reference is completely lost on T'Challa, but Shuri's ensuing cackle is foreboding enough. He sighs, shaking his head as he resigns to pocketing the tablet.

*

A few hours later finds T'Challa in his private study, going through Okoye's status reports and the council's various proposals for their respective tribes. 

Halfway through reading M'Baku's interest in procuring a few thousand hectares of land near the royal grounds ("The soil is much richer there, my king! The vibranium underneath will help produce better vegetation. My children will grow up strong and healthy, as a Jabari should."), one of kimoyo beads around his wrist starts flashing red in time with the tablet placed facedown on his desk.

He switches off the alert, then picks up the tablet, brows furrowed as notifications start popping into the screen. He scrolls through the list, notices that the history is listed in chronological order.

Viewed - Latina With Big Tits Gets Double Penetrated

Viewed - Amateur With Big, Juicy Tits Takes Cock While Wearing Glasses

Viewed - Busty Girl Ready To Be Tit-Fucked

T'Challa resists the urge to roll his eyes– of course Erik would dive right into _that_ specific category. Sometimes, he wonders how Erik had bested him before, what with how predictable he is–

A new notification pops into the screen just then, one that has T'Challa do a double take. He moves his face closer to the screen as if that would magically rearrange the letters.

Currently Viewing - Man Gets Rawed By Big Black Cock

Despite having only face-value knowledge of American culture, T'Challa is very much aware of how deeply embedded gender roles are in their country (which is one of the many reasons why Wakanda is far more advanced not only in terms of technology, but also as a society). This in turn had led him to assume that Erik has his, well, _preferences_ , and that they lie strictly with what is still considered the "norm" back in America.

But now, with T'Challa tapping the screen, acting almost on autopilot, he realizes that he's sorely mistaken.

His tongue is strangely thick in his mouth as the video buffers, then starts off with a rather soft-faced man, skin dark like coffee, fingering himself in front of the camera.

The man is vigorously pushing in three fingers into his hole, moaning so loud that it almost sounds like he's wailing. Then, somewhere off-screen, a deep voice says, "Damn, that ass 'bouta get fucked."

T'Challa's throat constricts, something inside him thudding to a halt as he immediately associates the faceless voice with Erik's. And as if on cue, another black man walks into the scene, muscles rippling as he starts jacking off to the sight of the man writhing on the sheets.

Then, as the the bulkier of the two kneels on the bed to roughly pry the other's thighs apart, T'Challa feels the telltale tingles of arousal in the pit of his stomach.

He catches himself just in time though, and with a sharp inhale, T'Challa turns the screen off, sliding the tablet away from him like he'd been scalded.

_What?_

His cheeks are warm, warmer than they have any right to be in the Wakandan climate, and his trousers... his trousers are a little tighter than they had been earlier.

_What?_

*

T'Challa spends much of the night tossing and turning, valiantly ignoring the constant blinking of both the tablet and kimoyo beads. He resolutely does not think of the fact that Erik's up at the same time as him, either lying in bed or locked in the bathroom, eyes intently focused on the screen while his other hand–

Needless to say, T'Challa doesn't get much sleep that night, which would explain the haggard look he now has on as he sits on the throne, listening to the council drone on.

"My king?" the leader of the Merchant tribe peers at him curiously, "Your thoughts on the distribution of fish in the east district?"

Several faces turn towards him, waiting diligently as T'Challa blinks. And blinks, before finally bringing a hand up to his face, rubbing his temple in slow circles.

"Yes, well," he starts, averting his gaze. Finds himself focusing on the steps leading outside the throne room. "I will think about the matter privately, and we will come to a decision by the next meeting."

Some of the members glance at each other, sharing secret conversations with one look. T'Challa feels irritation growing beneath his skin like an itch, but maintains his composure despite the murmurs around him.

"As I have said," he repeats, voice louder this time. "rest assured that we will come to a resolution regarding the matter. For now, I will have to adjourn our congress, if everyone is inclined to do so as well."

He looks around the room, waits for any objections, but only receives a curt nod from W'Kabi, who formally closes the meeting.

T'Challa remains seated on the throne, back straight and shoulders stiff until the last of the council members have departed. His posture doesn't slacken, not until he feels a gentle hand on his shoulder.

Looking up, he's met with Ramonda's face, etched with worry as she surveys him. "Is anything the matter, my son?" 

Instantly T'Challa feels guilty, but for what exactly he isn't quite sure yet. All he knows is that what he's feeling shouldn't warrant his mother's concern.

"All is well, mother." he squeezes her hand, holds it firmly as he stands to his full height. "I think I just need to walk around for a bit. Try to get some fresh air."

That seems to be the right thing to say, judging by the smile that graces Ramonda's lips.

"Yes, the botanists have much improved our gardens. I am sure you will find the lavenders most calming." she cups his cheek, eyes warm. "Go, my king."

As soon as T'Challa's walked towards the direction of the gardens, Okoye's by his side, eyebrows drawn together.

"My king," she starts, falling in step with him. "are you sure you're feeling alright? I can escort you to the infirmary–"

"I am fine, Okoye." T'Challa dismisses the suggestion with a wave of his hand. "As I said, I just need to walk for a bit."

 _To take my mind off some things_ , is what he doesn't continue with.

Okoye nods, although she doesn't seem convinced even in the slightest. There's a lull between them for a moment, that is until she changes tactics and says instead, "I just want to make sure you're in good form when we leave for America tomorrow."

T'Challa smiles ruefully at that. "I have been preparing for this trip since last month, General. No matter what, we will go." he sets his jaw, determined. "I cannot afford to delay any further. Nakia is doing her part in spreading more awareness about the project. I have to do mine by influencing their leaders."

Okoye gives him a sidelong glance at the mention of Nakia's name, but she doesn't say anything to which T'Challa is grateful for. It'd been hard enough the first few weeks since they'd mutually decided to end their relationship, his mother and Shuri acting like he was a ticking time bomb ready to explode at any moment.

"I just don't understand," Shuri had wailed then, when T'Challa had made it clear for about the hundredth time that yes, he was fine, and no, he didn't have some grandiose plan to fly to America and snag Nakia up like he'd done before. "you loved her!"

And yes, that is exactly it; T'Challa loved her, fiercely, passionately, with all his heart. Enough to let her go, to let her change the world without binding her to anything, even himself.

Now, that love has mellowed into something more constant, more familiar. The spark is lost, but in its place is a warmth that he grows comfortable in, just enough for T'Challa to know that he won't freeze the next time he sees her.

T'Challa's drawn out of his thoughts by a series of muffled thuds, increasing in volume as he and Okoye round the corner. It's only when they're right by the entrance does he realize that they've reached Erik's private gym, tucked in the farthest corner of the palace, given to him for that very reason.

"I see the brute is keeping busy." The distaste is evident in Okoye's voice, her nose wrinkled as she takes in the sight of Erik. He's shirtless, clad only in sweatpants, with his back facing them as he plants quick jabs on the punching bag.

T'Challa pointedly does not stare at the flex of Erik's shoulderblades and instead clears his throat, loud enough for Erik to stop mid-punch, placing his hands on the bag to stop it from swinging, its chain creaking noisily.

"Hello, N'Jadaka," T'Challa greets once Erik turns to them, one corner of his lips quirked up as if he'd been expecting them all along.

"'Sup, cuz," Erik cocks his eyebrows in that signature way of his, full of overinflated bravado that has Okoye grinding her teeth. If anything, it only amuses Erik further, who crosses his arms over his chest and leers, "Man, what's up with y'all and your uptight bitc–"

T'Challa decides to do immediate damage control by dismissing Okoye with a gentle, disarming smile, overcompensating for his disaster of a cousin. "You may leave us, Okoye. There are matters that I need to discuss with N'Jadaka anyway."

Okoye purses her lips, an objection clearly on her tongue, but as always, she relents with a curt salute, glaring at Erik one last time before turning on her heel.

Erik scoffs. "Chicks 'round here really 'bout to get on my damn nerves."

"Well, if anything, I would say the feeling is mutual." T'Challa intones, stepping closer. Erik's grin glints just so under the strip of sunlight he's standing in.

"So," Erik starts, untying the pieces of cloth around his knuckles. He shakes out his hands, runs his thumb over the sore ridges. "to what do I owe the pleasure, my king?"

"Stop it." T'Challa says, unable to explain the warmth that dusts his cheeks at Erik's mock beseeching tone. "I just wanted to let you know that I am leaving for America tomorrow."

"Yeah? Want me to write you a goodbye letter or somethin'?" Erik's tone is nothing but teasing, a little mean because that's who he is, but beneath that T'Challa sees the way his hands falter for a moment. The way his shoulders close in on himself just the slightest bit. Anxious. Insecure. Maybe even scared.

"I will make sure our efforts bear fruition." T'Challa says sincerely. _Our_ , because this is as much as Erik's as it is T'Challa's. He thinks back on all the times he'd spent with Erik, listened to his stories and considered his suggestions, supported his ideas and argued his points.

All the while, he'd managed to peel through his cousin too; he'd caught glimpses of that playful, mischievous side that so resembled Shuri's, making T'Challa ache with the knowledge of what Erik had to give up to his rage.

"That a promise?" Erik says, almost as if he's offering a challenge.

T'Challa smiles before laying his palm over his chest. "It is."

And it should surprise him, how easy it is to pledge with his heart to Erik, but it doesn't. Not really.

Erik doesn't say anything in return and instead turns towards the weapons rack. He picks up a bamboo staff, then hurls it towards T'Challa with an agility that could outmatch that of the entire Dora Milaje.

T'Challa, of course, catches it with relative ease, senses honed by the heart-shaped herb. He feels the smooth, polished wood with his fingers before raising an eyebrow at Erik.

"C'mon, cuz. Let's get one out before you hit the road." Erik grips his own staff, body already poised like a jaguar ready to pounce.

T'Challa knows better than to give in, especially when Erik had bested him by a large margin before. But then, he'd already been indulging Erik for so long; how is one practice match any different?

After slipping out of his robe wordlessly, T'Challa folds it neatly before picking up the staff once more. He walks towards the center of the room where Erik meets him halfway.

"Don't 'spect me to go easy on ya, cuz."

T'Challa smiles, the perfect picture of placidity despite the sudden glint in his eyes, the panther in him waiting to strike. 

"I was not under any such impression. By all means," he gives the staff a quick jerk with one hand, the sharp sound cutting through the air. "do not hold back, N'Jadaka."

The taunt has Erik charging forward, his grin morphing into a snarl as he aims a hit, smoothly blocked by T'Challa's staff. Then, jumping back, T'Challa executes a maneuver with his arm that he'd picked up from the royal guards, the staff going around over his head before striking Erik in the chest.

With a grunt, Erik manages to evade another hit, his tongue running over his bottom lip as they both catch their breaths.

"Hell of a move, cuz."

Then before T'Challa can even blink, Erik's hurtling in at full speed, throwing the staff over his shoulder before bodily tackling T'Challa to the ground.

"Told you I wasn't gonna hold back." The only thing in between them is T'Challa's staff, held up to bear Erik's weight. The veins at the back of T'Challa's hands are prominent against his skin, taking the strain.

Focusing his strength into his arms, T'Challa manages to push Erik off, who in turn starts stumbling back to his feet. Seeing an opening, T'Challa kicks his legs out and catches one of Erik's ankles between them, quickly pushing off the ground once Erik wavers.

First, it's a flash of limbs and Erik's surprised face, then the next T'Challa's on top of him, his staff propped under Erik's chin, pressing his shoulders down.

They stay like that for what feels like an eternity, T'Challa's heart in his ears as they breathe in lungfuls of air. Erik's still splayed on the ground, arms useless by his sides, obviously defeated.

The look he gives T'Challa, though, is anything but.

"Damn." he breathes out, and it's enough to dry out T'Challa's mouth, his throat bobbing as his mind strays to the video from last night. He'd been doing so good too, kept it buried within the recesses of his mind, but one word and it's out in the open, the memory replaying in his head like a broken tape.

_Damn, that ass 'bouta get fucked._

T'Challa all but jumps away from Erik then, trying to school his expression into something that won't give away the jolt of desire in his gut. Erik's barely standing back on his feet when T'Challa's hastily buttoning his robe, focusing on the action intensely if only to distract himself.

"I will be taking my leave then." he murmurs, not quite meeting Erik's gaze when he looks up briefly. He doesn't wait for Erik to respond and instead starts walking towards the exit, and it's only when he's a few steps away from the door does Erik call out to him.

"Hey, cuz!"

T'Challa freezes mid-step before slowly turning his head.

"Thank your lil sis for me, would ya?" That infuriatingly charming grin is back on his face, made worse when he winks at T'Challa. "You know what I'm talkin' about."

T'Challa nods, dazed. "Right."

Then before Erik can get another word out of that ridiculously salacious mouth of his, T'Challa doubles the pace of his stride until he's out of sight.

*

Control, T'Challa decides, is a fickle thing. He can draw back his claws on the man who killed his father, humble himself in front of leaders who mock him and his country, but now, he finds that same levelheadedness difficult to grasp.

He's in bed, already dressed down for sleep, but his eyes keep straying towards the blinking of the tablet by his bedside table. It's already been an hour since the notifications started coming in, each alert twisting T'Challa's stomach up further and further until he's drawn tight with tension.

 _Don't do it– by Bast, you are stronger than this_ , T'Challa scolds himself with a tight-lipped scowl, but, as if in retaliation, his mind draws in the image of Erik under him, breathless and flushed, eyes twinkling despite his defeat.

He whispers a thousand and one apologies to Bast and all his ancestors as he reaches for the tablet, his heartbeat loud like thunder in the quiet of the room. Not bothering to read through the notifications, T'Challa taps the most recent video in the list.

Something inside him flops and dips when he realizes it's the same pair from before– two black men, one of them slighter in build, his ass poised up in the air. The camera shuffles closer, and T'Challa feels his face heat up at the sight of the gaping, swollen hole, cum leaking out in thick globs.

"Fuck," The other man (the one T'Challa shamefully dubs as Erik) stands behind him, stretching the man's rim further with his thumbs. "an ass this creamy deserves to get fucked. What ya say, baby? Ready for another dicking?"

There's a muffled groan from somewhere in the pillows, followed by the other man sticking his ass out further, swaying his hips tantalizingly. The bulkier man wastes no time in gripping his own dick, holding the other in place as he sinks back in through the wet mess of cum that's undoubtedly his.

At this point T'Challa would be downright lying if he said he isn't the least bit affected, because in truth he is very affected– _very_ being heavily emphasized by the aching throb of his own cock.

His throat damn near closes up with shame and guilt and further shame as he slowly, slowly trails down between his legs, the breath stuttering right out of him when he reaches his destination. His dick is hot and wet– so, so wet as he closes a hand around himself.

In the video, the bigger man has now taken to fucking the other with deep, hard thrusts, fingers digging into the meat of the other's hips. Each drive of his cock punches a moan out of the other man, the sound carrying over to T'Challa's ears, who is now jerking himself off in shaky, frantic strokes.

Something like bile rises up his throat, sluggish and warm, completely in contrast with the pinpricks of pleasure that shoot up his spine. His toes inevitably curl every time the man fucks into the other, almost as if he could feel that same cock in him, huge in a way that's enough to tear him apart.

With each stroke of his hand, T'Challa feels his resolve crumbling, the walls around his mind ultimately teared down as he remembers the way Erik had looked at him, eyes dark with a peculiar heat when he'd said "Damn."

_Damn, cuz, you gettin' off on this? You like jerkin' it to your cousin?_

_What? You want my dick in you? Have me balls deep in that tight ass?_

_I'mma make you cum so hard, baby, gonna fuck you 'til you scream–_

It's only when T'Challa's spilling hot into his fist, body trembling with the force of his orgasm, does he realize that he'd been improvising the dialogue from the video, morphing it into Erik's voice.

T'Challa lays in bed, wide-eyed and panting, cum cooling in his pajamas, and inexplicably thinks of a story he heard long ago from his Baba.

 _Pandora's box_ , T'Chaka had said then, little T'Challa sitting by his knee, _is about unleashing something meant to be kept secret. Meant to be hidden from the world._

_Like Wakanda, Baba?_

T'Chaka's smile had been warm, but didn't quite reach his eyes. _Perhaps. But also other things. Many, many others, my child._

T'Challa's eyes slip shut, understanding dawning onto him in a way it didn't back then, when everything had been simpler, brighter. When dark, sharp eyes, much like a jaguar's, didn't haunt him like it did now.

_You are right, Baba. There are many, many others, indeed._

*

They leave for America before the first rays of the sun spill over the mountains, the trip spent mostly in silence seeing as only T'Challa and Okoye currently occupy the ship. Shuri had chosen to stay behind for the meantime, intent on improving some of her more youth-friendly tech in time for another scheduled trip in the coming months.

T'Challa busies himself by reading through his schedule for the three-day stay, bearing in mind the background of each community leader he's about to meet.

 _Word of advice, cuz_ , Erik's voice inevitably comes up at the back of his mind, _some of these people– they don't fuck with this whole king vibe you got. Don't expect 'em to bow or curtsy or whatever. You gotta make 'em feel like you one of 'em. That there are no barriers, no walls. Just a brother to a brother._

"My king," Okoye calls from the cockpit. "we have almost arrived. Nakia will meet us along with one of the contacts she has made in Oakland. A certain Audre Jones, one of the teachers in the local high school, as she says."

T'Challa nods, all thoughts of heated eyes and wild grins temporarily pushed to a secret part of himself as he straightens his back. He slips on the capable mask of a leader– not as king, but as a spearhead of the Oakland project.

They meet Nakia in an open field a few miles away from the heart of the city, standing with a bespectacled woman, possibly in her late forties. She stares with an awestruck expression as T'Challa unboards the ship.

"Amazing," Audre exhales, unable to hide her wonder. "truly amazing. Nakia told me about this– about, about your tech. But it's so... it's so differrent seeing it with my own two eyes."

Then, almost as if catching herself in a slip-up, Audre's eyes widen before she's bowing, back curved low. "I apologize, your, erm, your Majesty..."

T'Challa extends his hand for Audre to take instead. "Please, Ms. Jones, call me T'Challa."

The woman, now flustered, stands upright once more, hesitates for only a moment before finally taking his hand. He notes the calloused feel of her palm, a clear sign of labor throughout the years.

His gaze flickers to Nakia then, her face already beaming as she steps forward to wrap her arms around him. Where there would be a stutter in his chest is now only warmth, pleasant and safe. Familiar.

"Nakia," he says as he draws back, smiling just as much as she is. "I'm glad that you're looking well."

And she is; her hair has grown longer, enough that she could pull it up in a small bun, and despite the short period that has passed after leaving for Oakland, T'Challa can already see how radiant she is. How she's prospering now that she's doing what she was always meant to do.

"As am I with you, my king." Nakia says, and T'Challa knows she means every word. Her eyes then drift over his shoulder, no doubt catching a glimpse of Okoye.

"Sister Nakia," Okoye meets her in a crushing hug once T'Challa pulls away, the general's usually cold exterior melting at the sight of her dear friend. "we have missed you terribly."

Nakia whispers soothing words into her ear, and as Okoye withdraws with a bright smile, Nakia addresses the group at large. She goes through the motions of introducing them formally, and once settled, they agree to have lunch based on Audre's recommendation.

They end up in a diner-style restaurant, the place smelling of dark coffee and sweet syrup. After much insistence from T'Challa that yes, he is not opposed to trying an all-American breakfast for lunch, Audre ends up ordering a full plate for him.

Despite the general greasiness of the meal, T'Challa finds it filling, washing it down with a cup of coffee as Audre starts pulling out some files from her bookbag.

"So, um, T'Challa," she stutters on his name still, but moves on quickly, "I've compiled the forms you sent a few months back. The ones in the blue folder are from the students, and the ones in red are from the faculty."

T'Challa takes the folders with a satisfied nod, already planning to read through them later that night. "Thank you for your efforts, Ms. Jones."

"Oh, no, thank _you_." Audre's voice is earnest, her eyes sparkling with the same intensity as Nakia's. "What you're doing for these kids, for us... it's nothing short of heroic. Historical, even. You are going to change a lot of lives, T'Challa." she looks at the two women, her smile warm and a bit wobbly. "You all are."

"This is only the beginning," T'Challa says, his own chest constricting with an urge to help, to act now. "we have much to start on, Ms. Jones."

Audre nods knowingly, her demeanor shifting into a woman of ambition, of one goal. It's the same fire T'Challa's seen in Erik's eyes, and in the eyes of the young people he'd met during his initial visit.

"Yes, and we'll start now."

*

They spend the better part of the day driving around the city, Audre giving them a brief background of the neighborhoods and landmarks they pass by.

"–you see that tower over there? That's the Tribune Tower. You know, the one Houdini dangled off of during one of his shows–"

"–this is the downtown area... riots took place here, most recent one was about the new president–"

It's late afternoon when they reach their destination, the sight of the fenced buildings unsettling T'Challa just the slightest. Even now, with most of it already demolished, he still can't help the unease that settles on his shoulders, weighing him down as they walk towards the site.

When they're close enough, one of the workers from the construction site recognizes Nakia, then T'Challa, his announcement at the UN conference having been televised for all the world to see. 

Immediately he rushes to inform the head of construction, and as the women stand by, discussing the progress of the floor plan, T'Challa excuses himself for a moment.

He walks a little ways away from the group, coming to a stop in front of the building he knows to be Erik's. It's still upright, but barely so; the paint has mostly chipped off, cracks now evident in the cement. One swing from a wrecking ball and it's sure to topple over.

"They sure be workin' fast, huh? Almost wrecked everythin' down 'cept this one." a small, gravelly voice chirps up from beside T'Challa. He turns, finds himself looking at a stout woman, skin ashen with age but undeniably brown, spots littering the loose skin beneath her left eye.

She doesn't meet his gaze and instead continues staring at the same building. "I used to live there." Pointing a shaky finger up, she continues, "Room 1402."

The numbers are familiar to T'Challa, and it only takes a second for realization to dawn on him before the old lady resumes, oblivious to his reaction. "Lived right next to a single daddy raisin' his boy. Heard his wife left 'im a few months after the baby was born," she frowns, as if that left a bad taste in her mouth. "He was a kind man, talkin' 'bout stuff like he had the proper education for it. His boy adored him– that tiny thing, playin' basketball with the grown kids... callin' us ladies _aunties_."

She cackles, shaking her head as if that were one of her fonder memories. Then slowly, the etch in her brow returned, heavier and more prominent this time. "That poor boy... found his daddy bleeding out right in that buildin'. Held him through the whole night too. Couldn't call for help even if he wanted to, I s'pose."

The somber expression on her face doesn't slacken, not until she turns to look at the young man who'd been quietly listening to her reminisce about the old days.

"Why son," she starts, tilting her head up to study his face in the afternoon light. "watchu goin' around crying for?"

T'Challa blinks, and sure enough, another tear manages to roll past his cheek.

"Oh," he says, wiping it away with the back of his hand. "I... I'm sorry."

For what, he isn't exactly sure. But the old lady's words come back to him hours later, the image of a small, bright boy shouting "Hey, auntie!" at the neighborhood women and shooting hoops with kids thrice his size imprinted in T'Challa's mind.

*

Eventually, T'Challa retires for the evening in a modest hotel Nakia had booked for them. He insists on her staying as well, perhaps get her a room of her own, but Nakia refuses in that gentle but firm way of hers.

"I quite like the place Audre has set up for me. The water is always cold, but I've come to like it." She then pats T'Challa's cheek, fingers warm where she touches his skin. "Thank you, T'Challa. For being here."

"Of course." T'Challa says, knows that these simple words are enough for Nakia.

Soon, he's lying on a bed that's a bit too stiff on his back, but he's distracted enough by the insistent blinking of his kimoyo beads, having just turned them on while settling for the night.

The telltale bright red triggers enough of a response in T'Challa, the inside of his mouth drying up like someone had filled it with cotton. He debates with himself for a moment, but ultimately, T'Challa reaches for the tablet he'd placed in one of the drawers.

Switching the screen on, T'Challa is bombarded with a long list of notifications, eyes barely skimming over the titles before he once again selects the most recent one.

Unlike the past videos he'd watched, the one that's playing right now doesn't start off as vulgar. Instead, T'Challa is met with the sight of the same two men from before, pressed against each other while sharing slow, languid kisses.

From this angle, T'Challa can see that the bulkier of the two has a tattoo just under his right rib, the length of his body slotting together perfectly with the one beneath him. Pulling away with a wet smack, the man on top whispers something inaudible, causing the other man to smile.

The sight has T'Challa's mind reeling for a moment, trying to place the man's face from somewhere... someone he's seen before.

As if on cue, the camera moves closer, focusing on the man's expression, which is now contorting into that of pure ecstasy as the tattoed man starts fingering him.

High cheekbones, round eyes and long, long lashes... T'Challa stares and stares and stares some more, his heart beating painfully against his ribcage all the while.

The realization hits him like a bullet to the spine, sudden and paralyzing. He lays there in bed, chest heavy with this new epiphany, weighing him down like a physical thing.

The man currently being kissed and fucked into the mattress with equal intensity. The man who Erik had watched multiple videos of. The man who Erik had possibly touched himself to... he–

He looks exactly like T'Challa.

*

The thing about being the heir to the throne is that from a young age, he'd been taught to separate himself from his then-princely status. That's not to say that he'd been taught to strip away all personality as a royal, but rather, to set a distinction between T'Challa, son of T'Chaka, who likes reading under the trees and teasing his sister Shuri, from T'Challa, future king of Wakanda.

This is why it comes almost easy to him, going through the rest of the trip with the elegance and focus of a true-born leader. He's met a handful of the community representatives, heard from all sides and discussed their options, and by the end of it he's brimming to the full with new ideas and information to bring back to Wakanda.

"The days went by so fast." Nakia says, tone wistful as she clasps T'Challa's hands in her own. They're in the open field again, Audre unable to see them off since she had her students to attend to. "But I'm glad we are getting through the hard days bit by bit. Everything is shaping up well."

"Yes," T'Challa agrees, wants to say _Erik would be proud_ , but the words don't quite make it past his throat. The flicker in his eyes is enough for Nakia to furrow her brow, and T'Challa is reminded of just how attuned she is to his body language.

"Is there anything bothering you?" she asks– no, presses, eyes peering into his. "I've noticed, you know. There was something off about you the moment you stepped out of the ship. Tell me, is everything well back at home?"

The hint of urgency is enough for T'Challa to tighten his hold around Nakia's hand. "Wakanda and everyone in it is fine. There is no imminent danger, Nakia."

He can see the cogs working behind those bright, brown orbs, something in him sinking when she parts her lips and asks, "Then is it about N'Jadaka?"

T'Challa flounders for words, and that seems to be enough explanation for Nakia.

"I can't say I trust him just yet," she starts, "but I can see that he is good. Good for our vision, good for the community." Then she smiles, looking oddly serene. "Good for you."

This time, it's T'Challa's turn to furrow his brows. "Wha–"

"He is good for you." Nakia repeats, her hands slipping away from his. Instead, she squeezes his shoulder. "And you, to him."

T'Challa would've asked the meaning behind her words, cryptic as they are, but in the next moment the ship is landing a few feet away, the walkway already open and waiting.

"Go," Nakia urges, turning him towards the direction of the ship. "send my regards to the Queen and Shuri."

"I will." T'Challa relents, finds himself waving at Nakia– strong, capable Nakia, before the hatch shifts and closes.

*

They return to Wakanda a few hours later than they'd anticipated, the moon high up in the sky by the time the ship lands in the palace grounds. He sends a quick message to both his mother and Shuri through the kimoyo beads to inform them of his return, deciding that it would be better to talk in the morning instead.

He dismisses Okoye with a salute, his gratitude showing in the way he bows his head towards her before heading off to his quarters.

Everything is quiet and still in the palace, T'Challa relishing in its tranquility until he finds his steps faltering, having reached the corridor to Erik's room. The sight of those heavy double doors is enough to crack through his facade, the trepidation clear on his face as he makes his way to the entrance.

Ever since he'd boarded the ship for their return trip, T'Challa had been contemplating on bringing up the issue at hand, hoping that it would calm the storm now brewing in his core.

At best, Erik would deny any and all allegations, and T'Challa would be more than willing to follow suit, to turn a blind eye to what has become so transparent in the past few days, if only to keep the peace.

At worst, Erik would deny all of it _and_ use it against T'Challa, taunting him with his disgust, with his repulsion at T'Challa for even considering the thought of Erik wanting anything to do with him–

T'Challa shakes the thought out of his head, and he knows just from the distinct pain in between his ribs that neither scenarios would bring him the satisfaction he's seeking for.

Breathing in deep, T'Challa squares his shoulders, knocking with three clean raps of his knuckle before he can talk himself out of it. His hands get progressively clammier the more he waits, and when the seconds stretch into a full minute, he deduces that Erik must be asleep, and that this is definitely a stupid, stupid idea–

Suddenly, one of the doors swings open, revealing none other than Erik, leaning against the doorframe in nothing but a flimsy towel around his waist. His hair is damp, some of the tendrils pressing against his temple, water droplets dripping from the ends to cascade down to his shoulders.

"N'Jadaka," T'Challa snaps to attention, unable to stop himself from swallowing the lump in his throat.

"You're back." Erik says at the same time T'Challa follows himself up with a "Hello". The slow chuckle he's rewarded with has T'Challa smiling as well, albeit wobbly and very much un-kingly. "Thought you wouldn't be here 'til morning."

"Ah, well," T'Challa shakes his shoulders, and finishes quite lamely, "duty calls."

Erik gives him a funny look. "Man, you jetlagged or something?"

He doesn't wait for T'Challa to respond, instead turning back to his room. T'Challa blinks, suddenly unsure of himself, but then Erik reappears by the entry, an eyebrow raised at him.

"You comin' in or what?"

T'Challa purses his lips, nodding his head mutely as he steps into the threshold. He takes in the room like a caged animal would, eyes darting as if looking for an escape route in case of imminent danger.

That's when he notices it; Erik's tablet lying facedown on his study desk, the sight of it strangely incriminating. His own matching tablet burns a hole through his pocket, the mere feel of it pressing against his leg oppressive and almost scalding.

"So, how was your lil field trip?" Erik inquires, and before T'Challa can shift his gaze towards him, Erik follows his line of sight and smirks. "Yeah, I been puttin' it to good use if that's what you're wondering about."

T'Challa damn near wheezes at that, ripping his eyes away from the tablet. "Ah, yes."

Erik crosses his arms over his chest, clearly intrigued by how uncomposed T'Challa is right now. "What's up with you, man? Got bad news for me? The council suddenly want me dead instead? Go ahead, jus' spill it, cuz."

T'Challa's frown had deepened with each question Erik had raised, and upon hearing the words _council_ and _dead_ , he finds himself shaking his head firmly.

"It is nothing like that." he says, then, in a moment of pure recklessness, he reaches into his robe and pulls out his tablet. "It is about... this."

Erik looks at the tech, then up at T'Challa's face, but where there should be surprise or confusion is only smugness and nothing else.

"...So? How'd you find the videos, cuz?" he drawls out, his grin lecherous. "They any good? I'm a damn connoisseur, admit it."

The sudden shift feels like whiplash to T'Challa, and he stands there, reeling at the slow revelation of it all–

Erik knows.

Erik knows that he'd been keeping tabs on his porn history. Knows that T'Challa would end up watching them. Knows that T'Challa would make the connection between him and the man in the videos.

Knows that T'Challa's gullible enough to think anything of it.

"I have to go." He finds himself mumbling, ears numb as he fumbles with the tablet, trying to slip it back into his pocket. It's the entirely wrong thing to do, what with his clammy palm and shaky fingers, and the next thing T'Challa knows it's clattered to the ground.

He moves to bend over, pick it up and just be done with how ridiculous he's being, when Erik reaches out not for the tablet, but for his wrist.

"What are you doin' here?"

The question hangs between them like a tangible thing, warping the space all around them. Erik's grip is tight, unrelenting. Like he's never letting T'Challa go.

T'Challa parts his lips, gaping at Erik as words fail him, his mind a complete blank except for that tiny voice that snickers and says, _There you go again, freezing like that._

"I ain't gonna ask again," Erik looms closer, still holding onto T'Challa, who's now taken to stepping back, stumbling a few times. It's only when his back is pressed up against the wall does Erik speak up again, now close enough that T'Challa can see just how dark his eyes have become. "what are you doin' here?"

"It is..." T'Challa starts, gaining back some sense to at least sound dignified. "...it does not matter, N'Jadaka. At least, not anymore. Now," he tries to tear his arm out of Erik's grip, but still, Erik doesn't let up. "you will let me go, or there will be consequences."

"Fuck that shit." Erik practically growls, his other hand now catching T'Challa's other wrist. He pushes both of T'Challa's arms up over his head, trapping him in like prey. "I don't give a fuck about your consequences. You been teasin' me enough, cuz."

Erik leans in, his forehead pressing against T'Challa's as he whispers, voice rough, "I'mma change my question, and you better answer." he stares into T'Challa's round eyes, unblinking before he continues, "What do you want?"

Silence hangs like a veil over them, every other sound outside their little bubble muffled and irrelevant. Here, in this proximity, T'Challa can hear only the wild beating of his heart and Erik's sharp, ragged breathing.

"Nothing?" Erik snaps, a cruel edge to his tone. He clenches and unclenches his jaw, then, "I'mma let you in on a secret, cuz. Me? I know what I want."

He lets his eyes run over the expanse of T'Challa's body, and even through his robe T'Challa can feel the sheer heat of it, surprised that it hadn't been enough to burn through the cloth.

"But I ain't gonna take it unless you tell me. I can take a lot of things– hell, I even took your goddamn throne," To this T'Challa winces, but there's no malice in Erik's voice. Just stating a fact, trying to get a point across. "but not this. Never this, unless you tell me to."

T'Challa's eyes slip shut, the words leaving him in an exhale. "N'Jadaka... we are of the same blood."

This has no bearing to him whatsoever, but T'Challa uses it as a last defense against Erik, hopes that maybe some of the western ideals he'd grown up with would help him see sense. But all that does is pry a laugh out of Erik, dry and humorless.

"That the best you can come up with?" He slots his leg in between T'Challa's, rubbing his thigh over the growing heat there. "'Cause there's a hundred and one more reasons runnin' through my head, and that ain't one of 'em, _cuz_."

The breath trapped in T'Challa's lungs comes out in one sharp sound, almost like relief. Like he's finally giving in.

"Then let me go, N'Jadaka," he says, voice low and throaty, thighs tensing in between the knee Erik's pressing into him. "Let me go, and I'll tell you."

Erik studies his face in the dim light, unyielding for a moment before finally, his fingers loosen their grip.

Almost immediately, T'Challa brings his hands up to Erik's face, cupping his jaw with a tenderness that's been building inside of him the moment he'd seen Erik without all his layers, tears in his eyes and at the brink of death as the Wakandan sunset spilled over them.

"You asked me what I want." T'Challa murmurs, his thumbs a gentle pressure against the corners of Erik's mouth. "Everything, N'Jadaka. I want everything."

_Everything you're willing to give me, I will take it._

That alone is enough to spur Erik into action, the sound that's torn right out of him almost inhuman as he surges forward, roughly pressing his lips against T'Challa's.

"I been waiting too damn long for this," Erik murmurs in between kisses, pouring his anger and desperation into each slide of their tongues, each click of their teeth. T'Challa tampers it down with a firm bite on Erik's plush bottom lip, relishes in the groan he draws out of Erik. "fuck, baby."

T'Challa feels pure and unrestrained want bloom in his chest at the pet name, the intoxicating warmth spreading all the way to his fingers and toes. It makes him lightheaded to the point that he doesn't even notice that Erik's dragged him to bed, not until he's bouncing on the mattress, eyes staring up at the ceiling.

"Damn vibranium robes." Erik hisses, having failed to tear the material with his bare hands. T'Challa would've laughed if he wasn't so busy trying to swallow down his heart, which he's sure is ready to burst out of him at any moment.

Erik takes to undoing his robe, slipping the buttons off one by one. He sneaks kisses from T'Challa every few seconds, never seeming to get enough even when his lips are spit-slick and pink.

The first thing Erik does when the robe finally comes off is to bite down on T'Challa's collarbone, and the lack of hesitation prior to that convinces T'Challa that he'd wanted to do this for a long time.

More bites follow after that, trailing down until Erik catches a nipple between his teeth, scraping the nub just so before flicking his tongue over it. His hand comes up to play with the other, twisting and rubbing it with his fingers until it's just as swollen as the one in his mouth.

"N'Jadaka," T'Challa gasps, his back curving involuntarily, offering himself in a way he's never done with anyone else. "please, please..."

He isn't even sure what he's begging for– all he knows is that he wants Erik to consume him just as much as he wants to consume Erik. He wants Erik to touch him, kiss every inch of him until there isn't a single part of him that Erik doesn't know.

"Yeah," Erik's voice is shaky, clearly as affected as T'Challa is. He's hovering over him, his shadow casting over the length of T'Challa's body. "I know, baby. I know."

Then he dips his head to catch T'Challa's lips in another kiss, but this time, it's sweeter, more tender than anything T'Challa's ever experienced.

A moan makes its way up his throat, swallowed down by Erik as he starts rubbing T'Challa through his slacks. It's only when his bulge is straining painfully against the material does Erik pull away, undoing the buttons on those as well before tugging it off of T'Challa.

"Goddamn..." The reverence in Erik's voice is its own form of flattery, considering the fact that T'Challa can't take his eyes off of Erik as well.

He's beautiful like this, honest desire in his eyes and the telltale kiss-swell on his lips. This is an image T'Challa's willing to go down on his knees for, to surrender in a way he's never allowed himself to.

Warm, rough fingers close around his cock, tentatively setting a pace while Erik watches T'Challa's face closely, lapping up each change in his expression.

"Yeah, that's right, cuz," Erik breathes into his neck, his voice drifting up to T'Challa's ear, leaving a trail of goosebumps in its wake. "c'mon, fuck into my fist. Take what you want, baby, I want you to."

T'Challa's hips start up a rhythm of its own, and soon he's pumping into the tight circle of Erik's hand, precum sliding down the base of his cock from where they've collected in his slit. Erik bends down to suck on T'Challa's nipple once more, tongueing the swollen nub as he works his hand faster.

"Mmm– I'm, I'm going– " T'Challa tries to pry himself away from Erik's mouth and hand, unable to halt his impending release, what with how turned on he is. Erik doesn't budge though, and instead pushes him right off the edge by digging his thumb into the slit of T'Challa's cockhead, clamping down on his nipple at the same time. "Ah– _N'Jadaka_ –"

Every part of T'Challa is coiled tight with tension, hips jumping as he comes in thick, hot lines over his chest and stomach, urged on by the squeeze of Erik's hand. He milks him further and further until there's nothing left but a few stray drops landing on T'Challa's abdomen.

Through his post-orgasm high, T'Challa can make out the sensation of Erik licking his navel, catching the cum that's managed to collect there. Then Erik's turning him over, his chest against the mattress before he feels those familiar hands on his hips.

He doesn't think much of the position until Erik's grabbing his ass, pushing his ass cheeks apart to spit T'Challa's cum right over his rim.

Suddenly T'Challa's tensing up, nerves getting the better of him.

"I..." he starts, falters at the feeling of his own cum (now mixed with Erik's spit) running down his thigh. He swallows thickly, blinking the sweat out of his eyes before craning his neck to look back at Erik. "I've never... there's been no one else, N'Jadaka."

The hungry, molten look in Erik's eyes flicker, then slowly, he turns T'Challa around so he's lying on his back again. He crawls up his body, slots himself in places that T'Challa hadn't realized he needed Erik to fill.

"S'okay," Erik says, kissing T'Challa's cheek, all the way down his neck. He licks right over T'Challa's pulse point, then bites down on the tender spot. The rest of his words are murmured against bruised, love-bitten skin. "Ain't no reason to rush, baby. We got time."

T'Challa can't help the smile that spreads on his face at that, the snowmelt in his heart a clear indication of how smitten he is.

"Yes," he agrees breathlessly. They have time. They have time to learn each other's bodies, to map out a path and carve themselves into each other so deeply that no one can deny their connection.

Erik's back on top of him, the towel around his waist discarded so T'Challa can feel the hot, slick press of his cock against his thigh. Erik starts rutting into him just as his other hand pushes T'Challa's thigh a little further, fingers grappling until one of the digits catches his rim.

"'S just fingers for now." he whispers, breath hot on T'Challa's jaw. "Wanna feel how wet you are. Wanna make you feel so good you cry."

T'Challa nods, wants nothing else but for Erik to do just that. Encouraged, Erik slides his finger in deeper, groaning at the wet heat.

"You feel amazing, baby. So wet and tight. Fuck, you're perfect." Erik starts pumping his finger in, working through the resistance until he's able to get two fingers in.

T'Challa can do nothing but stare up at Erik, pupils blown wide with desire as Erik starts fingering him, using his own cum to lessen the friction. Erik's cock throbs from where it's trapped between them, and with a pat on his thigh, T'Challa has Erik easing up just enough so he can close a hand around his dick.

"Oh shit," Erik moans, fingers stilling for a moment inside him as T'Challa starts jerking him off. He cants his hips into T'Challa's hand, greedy for anything T'Challa can give him. "yeah, like that– fuck, you're gonna make me cum so hard."

The fingers inside him work even faster now, the pace frenzied and desperate, almost like Erik's searching for something–

"Ah!" T'Challa jerks like he'd been struck by lightning, his hold on Erik's cock falling away as he takes to gripping the sheets instead, twisting them in his hands as Erik finger fucks him in that same spot. " _Nngh_ , N'Ja– please, oh– _ah_ – "

He grits his teeth at the white-hot pleasure, the knot in his belly coiled so tight he feels pinpricks of tears collecting at the corners of his eyes. It's so good yet so cruel, the way Erik steadily takes him apart like this, not stopping even when he tastes salt on T'Challa's cheeks, streaming in rivulets.

"T'Challa." The sound of his name from Erik's lips has all the breath knocked right out of him. He opens his eyes into half-slits so he can look at Erik once more, watch those full lips form his name. "You did so good. You can let go now... c'mon. Come for me, T'Challa."

Almost on command, T'Challa shoots off with the force of a freight train, coming all over himself a second time. It's filthy and hot and sticky, and it's good, all of it is good, especially when Erik presses insistent fingers into that spot inside of him.

Erik jerks himself off with his other hand until he's spilling all over T'Challa as well, making a mess of his thighs and abdomen.

"Ahh, _fuck_ , T'Challa– _T'Challa_ –"

Erik chants his name over and over like he wants T'Challa to know that right now, in the height of his pleasure, there is no one but him. No one but T'Challa who can ever make him feel this much good.

Now both boneless and sated, T'Challa lets Erik's weight bear down on him, welcomes his warmth by wrapping his arms around Erik's waist. He kisses anywhere his lips can reach, drifting off with Erik's heartbeat right over his.

*

"I never got to thank you." Erik mumbles into his hair much later, when T'Challa's just blinking his way back into consciousness.

"For what?" Despite his cat nap, T'Challa's still in such a state of bliss that he doesn't think much of it, instead mentioning the first thing that comes to mind with a laugh. "The tablet? You do not nee–"

Then Erik's leaning in, pressing a kiss to his mouth, intent on swallowing the sound to keep for himself. He draws back only a hair's breadth away, looking into T'Challa's eyes as he murmurs, "You know."

_For not lettin' me die out there._

_For givin' me this one chance to be better._

_For loving me._

T'Challa looks at him for a long moment, rendered speechless by Erik's open honesty.

Then tenderly, gently, he presses his forehead against Erik's, nodding wordlessly because the emotion welling inside him is literally too much and too big all at once.

_Ndikwazi kakuhle, ndazi izono zakho, ndazi nentliziyo yakho— kwaye ke ndisakuthanda._

*

( _I know you well, I know your sins, I know your heart– and I love you._ )

*

When T'Challa had first brought up the idea of Erik accompanying him to his next trip to America, it had caused such an uproar that Okoye had to step in, her gleaming spear enough of a warning.

The second time he'd discussed the matter was a few weeks later, when news of Erik assisting Shuri in her lab for phase two of her Oakland project made the rounds within the council. This time, the opposing side had barely taken the victory by one point during the voting.

The third time was the day before T'Challa would be flying back to America, this time with Shuri and Erik in tow. He'd expected resistance and was more than ready to rebut with the precautions they'd taken for this trip, but all he'd gotten was a weary sigh from the Mining tribe leader.

"For Bast's sake, bring him then. I suppose he deserves it anyway. The recognition is as much as his as it is ours."

It had taken time.

But finally.

Finally, Erik is standing beside him in front of what used to be his apartment building, the basketball court now improved with an actual hoop. Somehow, the sight of that is enough for Erik to blink back tears. (Which he firmly denies, claiming that he just isn't used to the damn air pollution anymore, Wakanda's too-clean atmosphere making him susceptible.)

"T'Challa!" Audre greets them from the entrance of the outreach center, her eyes twinkling as she leads them inside. "You must be Shuri– amazing, amazing girl. All the kids love your inventions. The hoverbike is causing quite the riot!"

Then she smiles at Erik. "And Erik, it's nice to finally meet you. T'Challa's told me before that none of this would've happened if not for you..." she holds on to both his hands, her grip warm and firm. "Thank you."

Erik looks from her to T'Challa, then back at Audre, obviously not used to this much overflowing gratitude from anyone.

"S'no problem." he mumbles, and for a second T'Challa sees a glimpse of that boy from Oakland, running around believing in fairytales until the day he'd hardened and shunned everything out but his anger.

Now, when T'Challa reaches out to take his hand, he notices how undeniably tender Erik's hold is.

Eventually, they walk into a room with a large group crowding around an object covered by white cloth, ready to be unveiled.

Audre winks at them before going to the center of the small stage where a young man is pulling at his sleeves, clearly unused to this much attention. She tilts her head to whisper into his ear, and immediately he perks up, catching T'Challa's eye in the crowd.

"Good morning, everyone," Audre starts, her voice carrying throughout the room. "we have here today with us not only the benefactors, but the visionaries, all the way from Wakanda."

She sweeps a hand towards them, giving the crowd a moment to take in the presence of the three, waits until the murmurs quiet down. "To show our utmost gratitude and respect, we have young Carter here, who, early on, has realized a natural talent for sculpting vibranium, turning it into art."

Erik perks up at that, interest piqued as Carter steps forward, doing the Wakandan salute which T'Challa returns.

"Nakia... she told us 'bout your story. 'Bout who you are, and what Wakanda is." He reaches towards the cloth, body stiff with nerves but obviously determined as he takes one end of the sheet, Audre taking the other. With a nod, they both pull it down, unveiling the sculpture of both a panther and a jaguar, facing each other midroar.

At first glance, it would look like they're in the middle of a fight, but the details are enough to convey otherwise; their tails are intertwined, feline eyes made tame so that instead of coming against each other, they are coming together, the moment immortalized in pure vibranium.

This time, it's Erik who reaches out for T'Challa, and it's enough to make T'Challa's heart sing, feeling those fingers threading through his.

"Beautiful, isn't it?" T'Challa says, beaming proudly at the boy before turning to Erik.

"Yeah," Erik replies, his eyes never leaving T'Challa's even as the crowd breaks into applause, phones and cameras going up to take photos of the vibranium sculpture. "the most beautiful thing I ever laid my eyes on."

Before T'Challa can say anything to that, Shuri groans from beside them.

"Get a room, you two." She fake gags, but then she's in between them, her arms going around their shoulders. "Congratulations, brother. I am happy for you both."

T'Challa smiles wider, and thinks he is too. He will be happy for a long, long time.

**Author's Note:**

> fun fact: this was supposed to be another pwp fic but then i was like "ok this is ridiculous, i need to rebrand myself and churn out something with actual plot for once"
> 
> 11k+ words later and here we are


End file.
